We do believe that freedom, the right to choose, the right to

Host: The afternoon heat lay heavy over the public square, where the air shimmered with dust and voices. A small crowd gathered near a weathered statue, their faces half-hidden by the glare of the sun. Across the square, a flag fluttered weakly in the wind — once vibrant, now faded by years of weather and waiting.

At a corner bench, Jack and Jeeny sat facing the noise of a small protest — banners scrawled with words like freedom, justice, and choice. Their drinks grew warm under the sun, but neither moved.

Jack: “Ahmadinejad said — ‘We do believe that freedom, the right to choose, the right to vote, respect and justice is the fundamental right of all people. All people must obtain these rights.’ Bold words, coming from a man accused of denying half those things himself.”

Jeeny: “It’s still truth, even if spoken by contradiction. Sometimes those who lack virtue still name it best.”

Host: A megaphone blared somewhere near the fountain, and the chant of voices rose like waves, rolling through the square. Jack’s grey eyes followed them, unreadable.

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s hypocrisy dressed in diplomacy. You can’t talk about freedom while holding the leash. Words like that — they become decorations, not commitments.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative, Jack? Silence? Every struggle begins in contradiction. America wrote ‘all men are created equal’ while enslaving millions. Yet the sentence outlived the sin. Maybe that’s how truth works — it survives its speaker.”

Host: The sound of a drumbeat echoed faintly through the crowd, steady and determined. A young woman stood on the edge of the protest holding a sign that read, We are still breathing. Jeeny watched her, her eyes dark with empathy.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about words like freedom — they’re inherited, not owned. Even tyrants can’t contain them. Once spoken, they scatter like seeds.”

Jack: “Seeds don’t grow on concrete, Jeeny. And the world’s been paved over by power. You think the right to vote, the right to choose — they mean anything to the powerless? To the refugees, to the prisoners, to the women silenced by laws written in rooms they’ll never enter?”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why they matter. Freedom isn’t the privilege of the powerful — it’s the demand of the broken. Every vote, every protest, every word of defiance — that’s humanity’s architecture of hope.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting a banner from someone’s hands. It spun through the air before landing near Jack’s feet. In red paint, the words read: Respect is not permission. He stared at it for a long moment.

Jack: “Idealism again. You always find poetry where others find politics.”

Jeeny: “And you always find cynicism where others find truth.”

Jack: “Tell me then — what good is freedom if it’s just a word? The world’s full of speeches and manifestos. Yet people still die for food, for dignity, for a name that’s not erased.”

Jeeny: “Because freedom isn’t granted — it’s reclaimed. It’s not written in constitutions; it’s written in scars. When Rosa Parks refused to move, when Iranian women cut their hair in the streets, when South Africans sang under apartheid — that wasn’t rhetoric. That was resurrection.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, glancing off Jeeny’s hair, turning it into a dark halo. Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, not from fear, but from the sheer fury of conviction.

Jack: “And yet, look around. The world keeps circling back. Different flags, same cages. People talk about democracy, but power always finds a new mask. Maybe freedom’s just another illusion we sell to make the struggle bearable.”

Jeeny: “Then illusions are worth keeping if they keep us human. You call it delusion; I call it direction. Without belief, resistance collapses. Without hope, justice withers.”

Jack: “So you believe in freedom as faith?”

Jeeny: “As duty. Every generation inherits unfinished work. Freedom isn’t a destination — it’s a dialogue.”

Host: A pause. The square trembled with sound — a hundred feet, a hundred voices, merging into a single rhythm of demand. Somewhere in that rhythm, a tear gas canister hissed, and the air thickened with smoke.

Jeeny stood up instinctively, her eyes narrowing as she watched the chaos unfold. Jack grabbed her wrist.

Jack: “Don’t. It’s not our fight.”

Jeeny: “Then whose is it? Freedom is always someone else’s fight — until it’s ours.”

Host: The smoke rolled toward them, curling through the light like a living thing. Jack’s jaw tightened, his heart beating faster. Around them, the crowd scattered, some coughing, some still shouting.

Jack: “You think marching changes anything? Governments fall, others rise. The song stays the same.”

Jeeny: “But the singers change. And that’s everything. Every protest, every rebellion — it doesn’t erase oppression, but it teaches memory. It tells the next child: you are not powerless.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose now, not loud but resonant, cutting through the panic. The smoke blurred the edges of her face, but her eyes burned clear.

Jeeny: “Ahmadinejad’s words — maybe they were hypocrisy, maybe not. But they hold a truth larger than him. All people must obtain these rights — not as a gift, but as a claim. Because justice doesn’t trickle down; it’s taken, hand by hand.”

Jack: “And when they take it, someone else loses. That’s the curse of freedom — it always comes at someone’s expense.”

Jeeny: “Only when built on control. True freedom isn’t subtraction; it’s multiplication. When one person stands up, others rise with them. That’s why tyrants fear unity — it doesn’t break chains; it melts them.”

Host: The sirens wailed in the distance, the kind of sound that always carries both fear and possibility. Jack stood, brushing the dust from his pants. His expression softened, not with agreement, but with something heavier — resignation.

Jack: “You make it sound eternal. Like a fire that never dies.”

Jeeny: “It is. You can bury it, smother it, silence it — but freedom is stubborn. It waits.”

Host: The smoke began to thin. The square lay scattered with posters, shoes, and echoes. The flag still fluttered — torn, but visible. Jeeny reached down and picked up one of the fallen signs. The paint smeared across her hand — red and raw.

Jack: “You really believe we can make the world better?”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. But better doesn’t have to mean perfect. It just means fairer than yesterday.”

Host: Jack looked around the emptying square — at the banners, the faces, the voices fading into side streets. He thought of revolutions that turned inward, of promises broken and rewritten, of words that outlived their speakers.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real power of freedom — not that we reach it, but that we keep walking toward it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a possession. It’s a pilgrimage.”

Host: The sky had turned orange now, the sun a bruised coin sinking behind the buildings. The wind carried the faint sound of singing — small, fractured, but real.

Jeeny: “We do believe in freedom, Jack. Even when it fails us. Even when it lies to us. Because the alternative — silence — is death.”

Jack: “And belief, then… is defiance.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: They stood in the middle of the square, surrounded by the remnants of hope and exhaustion. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and courage.

Jeeny turned to Jack, her voice low but unwavering. “Freedom isn’t granted by leaders or speeches. It’s written by the hands that refuse to be folded.”

Jack nodded slowly, the light fading across his face. “Then maybe we should keep our hands open.”

Host: And as the sun disappeared, the shadows of the two figures stretched across the broken stones — reaching toward the horizon, toward something unseen yet undeniable.

Freedom. Still far. Still burning. Still waiting to be built.